Ken Frantz

In an improbable world populated by two-year-olds lies both folly and wisdom, purpose and hope. Folly begets wisdom as lessons are learned on our part. Purpose rides in to save the day, even if it is a little tardy most times. Thank goodness for such interlopers representing people and circumstance. Where would we be without them?

Just a bit more. One more half turn. A light tap ought to do it. One more shovel full. Words of optimism and alacrity for handypersons everywhere. Words that also spell regret when the window pane breaks, a bolt shears off, or an irrigation pipe is nicked while trenching. We know it happens from time-to-time… few of us are immune. And, worse, we see it com

Editor's Note: Ken Frantz shares this previously published article while he is on sabbatical.

It was impractical yet necessary. A mental health break in an otherwise busy day. A bit of time stolen from the routine to engage a few minutes for an indulgence of sorts; gleaning a few ears of corn from a harvested field. By the time I walked the edge of the field, the shadows were long. The last sunshine of the day was brilliant against yellow cornstalks, broken rows aligning ones vision to the local elevator where most of the crop had been marketed or stored. The combine, while remarkably efficient, left just enough ears to challenge the seeker. Full ears were often found with the nudge of a boot against dried husks, or they were attached to a bent over stalk that escaped a voracious corn header.

From the book of James, we take seriously the notion that faith without works is dead, even while understanding that salvation comes through grace. The two are inseparably connected: a living faith results in works reflective of, but not as a means to, that faith. Does faith alone save us as the apostle Paul declares?

Three hours and two supercells from home, a decision had to be made; wait out the ominous skies in my path for an hour or two, or press onward in hopes of side-stepping the worst of the weather with the goal of arriving home before dark.

The chainsaw hadn't been touched but once or twice since the Dailey tornado, now several years past. The bar was embarrassingly corroded but was at least more recognizable than the chain that clung to it, securely bound in place by a combination of rust from exposure to moisture and layers of dirt, oil, and grease. This old mechanical beast, moribund, at death's door in every regard, was too much of a challenge to pass up. Armed with naval jelly, steel wool, spray lubricant, air compressor and a little fortitude, I waded in on the saw just to see if it could be resurrected.

The shuttle bus to Denver International Airport's satellite parking was full, a dozen or so travelers nearing the end of various journeys, their thoughts focused on where they had been or where they were going. Travel weariness had dulled the senses, the ride becoming yet one more step to endure. Conversation in these situations is often confined to nicety

I was running behind schedule during a busy week that was quickly getting out of control. A seven-hour drive remained to get home only to face an additional twelve hours of daunting schedule before there would be another break. My mind was…

Time flies when you’re having fun, or at least when you’re a National Weather Service reporting station. For the past number of years, the daily routine has included recording highs and lows of the previous weather day, precipitation amo…